


Hot Pursuit With Bicycles

by Random_Nexus



Series: "The Furred And The Fae" - Sherlock Holmes canon-based AU [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Canon-Typical Violence, Crass Humor, Humor, Inter-Species Relationships, M/M, Magic, Other, Prompt Fic, Supernatural Elements, The Furred And The Fae, Watson's Woes, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018, Werewolves, fae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-19 06:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15504378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Lestrade and his men, along with Holmes and Watson, track a criminal to his lair, but it's Holmes and Watson who end up giving chase.  And what a strange chase it is.Written For The Prompt: JWP #20: "Three Little Words: Use three – and only three – of the words in today’s entry. An anti-point if you use more than three!" -Watson's WoesJuly Writing Prompts.





	Hot Pursuit With Bicycles

**Author's Note:**

> Looks like the Muse and I are on a 'The Furred And The Fae' kick with these prompts. The prompt post gave a list of words, which you can see by clicking through to see the post on Dreamwidth, and the three I chose were: Chase, Bicycle, Cats. Hope you enjoy, dear readers.

Just as Holmes had expected him to do, when Lestrade and his constables turned up at Lester Epping’s door, the man made a run for it. However, rather than trying to bull his way past the police, Epping dashed across the main room of his flat, situated a bit unevenly above a seedy pawn shop, and leapt through the open window. 

Several of Lestrade’s men gave gasps or shouts of surprise, but the Inspector merely snapped loudly, “After him! Mullen, Crandall, Norris, all of you down and spread out around the building, head him off if he makes it to the ground.”

In the meantime, before Lestrade had even spoken, Holmes had hared off to follow, practically on Epping’s heels. Watson had paused a mere instant to fight the urge to follow him, and then pushed through the constables—even as Lestrade was giving his orders—to rush down the rickety stairs and do exactly as Lestrade was nearly done conveying. Only he knew, as did Holmes, it would be better for them if Lestrade’s men were far enough behind to miss anything odd that might occur. No human man could run as fast as a werewolf, even though he was in human form; furthermore, no human of any sort was as fleet of foot as a denizen of Faerie, and a phouka was one of those historically fond of all sorts of chases.

Watson reached the street in seconds and was at the corner of the building as Epping dropped from the end of a cleverly placed knotted rope—clearly a planned escape route—and Holmes, who eschewed the rope entirely, hit the ground in a deep crouch, rolling away the force of motion and rising in the blink of an eye to follow Epping around the far corner into a small, crooked alley. Watson paused, glancing about to see he was momentarily alone, and reached out one hand, fingers spread. Murmuring a few words in a form of ancient Gaelic spoken by his own folk before the Romans had built their famous roads through the area to which it was considered native, Watson ‘touched’ Epping with a curl of power, marking him to Watson’s senses in a way vaguely analogous to a bloodhound getting a fix on a scent. He could find the man just about anywhere now; he had only to follow his ‘trail’. 

He knew it was more literal a matter for Holmes, who had a nose better than any bloodhound when in his wolf form, though not too much weaker in his human shape. Watson’s sense of smell was better than a human’s, but he could only follow the same scent-trail if he took one of his other forms, a huge black dog; however, there was no safe way to do that at the moment and it would be redundant. What Holmes would need was Watson’s complementary talents: his magic and his own instincts for the chase. 

It appeared Epping, who was a bully, a thief, and more recently a murderer, could apparently run like the bloody blazes! Holmes had not yet caught him as Watson ran just as swiftly in a counterpoint path along another street and two alleys, the subtle magical focus supplementing his own knowledge of the ways of humans and the maze that was this older, poorer portion of London.

When their paths came together a few minutes later, Holmes bursting out of the end of an alley and Watson coming round the curve of a street barely wide enough for a milk-cart to pass, Holmes made a sharp sound of annoyance—half a bark of harsh laughter and half a gust of an exhale from his heavy breathing—and he gestured in the direction he was facing. Watson shook his head, spreading his hands in wordless confusion.

“He’s grabbed a bloody bicycle!” Holmes nearly shouted.

Of course, no wonder Holmes hadn’t caught him, and it was clear he’d been pushing for as much speed as he could manage on these uneven, slippery streets. He had some smear of dark grime along his left shin and forearm, probably only just avoided a fall or something like. Watson was concerned, but not overly so, for Holmes was made of tougher stuff than he seemed—again a product of his not as mythical as reported other self—and yet, it was in his nature to want to ease the way of those for whom he cared. He cast about quickly, sending the quick equivalent of a burst of magical query to the winds, and gestured for Holmes to wait a moment.

“Watson!” Growled Holmes, eager, straining to set off again.

An answer, the niggling urge to look… _that way_ … and Watson could almost see the outline of a bicycle, leaning against a building around the corner, momentarily unguarded. He pointed urgently and said only, “Down there, another bicycle, around the corner to the right, and then go immediately left to catch him up.”

Holmes’ immediate grin was thanks enough before the man took off like a shot in the direction indicated, Watson following long enough to then cut down another street. Epping wasn’t that far ahead that Holmes couldn’t catch him on a bicycle, too, but better to throw a net than a rope. In the far distance, he heard the faint commotion that was likely Lestrade’s bluebottles doing their best, but they’d likely never catch up till the chase was over, poor chaps.

Onward, dashing through streets, barely eluding pedestrians, cabs, newfangled motor-driven cars, and all manner of obstacles, Watson had no need to extend his magic to know where Holmes was—they were long ago bonded soul to soul—though his trace on Epping was the ghost of a sound/scent/sensation at the edge of his Fae senses. Holmes unexpectedly deviated by one street from Epping’s desperate path—the criminal peddled like a marathoner, as well, and Watson was beginning to wonder if he was something more than human, too—and Watson came out just ahead of where Epping ought to shoot across a fairly busy road. A gust of wind sent Watson to nearly gagging, caught by the strong odor of horse manure and other unsavoury things that had been scraped out of the gutters, and he noticed the cart and the bored-looking horse in the traces, along with the man who was right then shoveling muck from the gutter into the cart. A filthy job, but certainly a necessary one. 

Watson looked up in response to a tingle of his own magic, just then seeing Epping pedalling like mad along the pavement. Dampening his nose with a quick spell he’d learned as a child, Watson started forward just as he felt Holmes’ presence in the alley that Epping was about to pass by. Here would be the culmination of this surprisingly long and involved chase.

The muffled sound of a dog’s bark, an old woman’s shout, and then a chorus of angry cats yowling preceded a burst of sudden activity at the alley out of which Watson expected Holmes at any moment. Easily a dozen or more assorted cats burst out across the pavement and into the street, right into the path of Epping’s furious pedalling! Holmes, looking smugly elated, was right behind them on the bicycle he’d borrowed at Watson’s direction.

Epping wobbled, trying valiantly to turn, and yet Watson couldn’t help shouting, “No!” and reaching out with the magic of a quick spell.

Between the hasty shield spell, the surprise, and Epping’s likely exhaustion, the criminal veered sharply and came to a sudden halt as the front wheel hit the back end of the street-cleaner’s cart. Watson, already running, came to a stop next to where Holmes had done, having set his own metal mount aside as he frowned at Watson, eyes squinted and nose wrinkled against the stench.

“Why did you try to stop him? My plan was perfect!”

“I wasn’t aiming at him, Holmes, it was those poor cats,” Watson protested with a similar frown of his own, though without the rest. He murmured softly and tapped Holmes briefly on the nose before adding, “He might have hurt one of them.”

“Merciful relief; my gratitude. Watson, you did see that two of them weren’t cats, didn’t you?” Holmes muttered as a crowd of gawkers—and a few mockers—began to gather around the cart. 

“Rats? Herne’s horns, those were never rats!” Watson turned to look, trying to recall what he’d seen, but all the cats and… well, whatever else… were long gone. “Where did they come from?”

Smirking, Holmes aimed a thumb off in the direction he—and the herd of cats and whathaveyou—had come. “Little old woman down that way sells dried and preserved fish, and has a regular honour guard of assorted moggies at all times.”

“But why… oh, Holmes,” Watson started to ask, but then hesitated before lowering his voice to an angry mutter. “You couldn’t possibly have _changed_ under such circumstances!”

“No, but I can summon a fairly believable bark when I have to do,” he replied in unabashed glee. “They were sure a big, nasty dog was about to try and make a meal of them, so they ran.”

“Right into Epping’s path.” Shaking his head, Watson couldn’t help grinning, as well. But then, who better than a phouka to appreciate such mischief?

“And how better to end his ugly career, a man who made a habit of taking what pittance the poor in these neighbourhoods can manage to save up, and then turning to the murder of poor old pensioners? I can’t think of a better place for Epping than face-first into a pile of… ahum… gutter scrapings.”

“He’s going to be popular in the holding cells, eh?” murmured Watson.

When Lestrade and several of his men finally puffed, wheezed, and gasped their way onto the scene, it was to find Holmes and Watson sniggering and giggling like errant schoolboys—and not even having the good grace to look out of breath, the frustrating sods. Lestrade had an eye-rolling moment of disgust, until he saw the crowd of onlookers watching Epping struggle to extract himself from the pile of ordure, and then he had to turn away with a hand over his mouth for a moment before sternly ordering his reluctant constables to take charge of their prisoner.

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Yes, Holmes returned the bicycle he borrowed—with a pound note rolled up and not quite hidden in the opening of one of the handlebars. No cats, or rats, were harmed in the writing of this fic.


End file.
